


Roses are Falling

by Rotwang



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Suffering, Emotional Baggage, Hate Sex, M/M, Nightmares, desperate for human connection, two grown men who don’t even have one(1) healthy coping mechanism between them, vague self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 17:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotwang/pseuds/Rotwang
Summary: Sammy Stevens never expected to be where he is tonight: standing outside a bar at midnight, smoking with Mayor Stephen Grisham. Except this isn’t the first time, or even the tenth time— and that’s got him a little worried.





	Roses are Falling

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be a lot hornier than where it ended up. 
> 
> Greg has a bad time (as he always should)
> 
> Sammy and Grisham need to find a way other than fucking to work out their issues. 
> 
> Based on this song by Orville Peck because that’s just where I am in life right now. 
> 
> https://youtu.be/CSq_siksmj8

Sammy hadn't expected it to go quite like this. 

The first time he and Grisham had fucked it was out of raw need and a dark undercurrent of self flagellation on both their parts. They had both hated it as much as they'd relished the fight. Because that was what it was. A fight. Messier than the usual kind but coming from the same place.

As much as Sammy hated the way Grisham made him feel, he also savored the chance to let loose. To take out years of pain and months of fear and weeks of gnawing, unrelenting want.

He wasn't surprised at his own weakness. What he hadn't expected was for it to be a reoccurring problem.

Which is why he was a little at sea, standing in the back parking lot of Murray's Bar, holding his lighter to the end of Stephen Grisham's cigarette. In and of itself, the action had little meaning. But they'd been drinking together-- or at least next to each other inside. Brushing shoulders and elbows more and more frequently as the night went on and their blood alcohol content crept past the legal limit.

Again, drinking next to each other and exchanging as few words as possible was the gold standard in a King Falls bar-- but it wasn't their usual ritual. It was almost... mundane. Casual. Like they were regular lovers meeting for a pleasant evening instead of barely tolerant enemies too weak or too stubborn to resist temptation.

Grisham inhales deeply and Sammy can’t help but watch his lips as the smoke curls away from them in twisting ribbons. He'd fucked Grisham enough times now to know what those lips felt like on every part of him, and how sharp the teeth behind them were. He turned away in disgust.

Sammy felt Grisham watching him. Since they'd started this-- tryst? Fornication? Affair? Sammy cuts himself off at that word. He could forgive himself only so much. He and Jack had always had an open relationship, but this was starting to be a far cry from the casual hookups they'd enjoyed while they were together. But Jack was gone. And Grisham was here.

Since they'd started this... nightmare; Sammy could always feel Grisham watching him. It seared into him like a brand-- especially around Ben or Lily it felt like Grisham was reminding him of his weakness, of what he was capable of, what he was actually like.

It drove Sammy absolutely insane, and Grisham knew it. He felt the repercussions every time Sammy forced him onto his knees or twisted his arms up behind him. He felt it in the hand on his throat, choking off that awful low laugh he indulged in whenever Sammy was especially cruel.

Sammy shook off the slimy feeling creeping up his spine and took a long drag off his own cigarette.

“Something on your mind, Stevens?”

Grisham was looking at him sideways, signature half smile on his lips. Like he knew exactly what Sammy was thinking. Bastard probably did. Or at least he could make an informed guess.

“Just wondering why you decided to show up and ruin my evening.” Sammy kept his voice even, shrugging and shaking the ash off the end of his cigarette. “But then again you don't need a reason for that these days, do you.”

There was no bite to Sammy's words. He was tired. The venom of their usual exchanges was ordinarily invigorating-- but he didn’t know if he had the energy for it today.

Besides, his evening hadn't actually been ruined. It was... tense when Grisham first arrived and slid into the stool next to Sammy; but as the night had gone on and neither of them had instigated their regular routine of provoking each other to blows he had actually relaxed. He expected it was just putting off the inevitable. They were free to brawl as they liked out here-- it wouldn't be the first time.

Grisham sighed. More smoke pooling over his head and catching in the orange of the street light. He looked tired too.

“And here I thought we were having a nice, friendly evening out.” He crossed his arms underneath one another, hugging the dark blue peacoat closer to his thin frame. He wasn't looking at Sammy.

Sammy didn't like fighting with Grisham. It fulfilled some kind of perverse need in him but he didn't enjoy it. He found he liked Grisham exhibiting a modicum of humanity even less.

“There isn't anything 'friendly' between us and there never will be.” He said, and this time there was an edge to his words, but it was an edge of fear rather than anger.

Sammy didn't want to see Grisham tired, or worried, or anything that would make him more than the slimy politician archetype he filled out so perfectly. If he was just an antagonist in Sammy's life then the pleasure Sammy felt when Grisham's blood sprayed over his knuckles was justified. When he pushed past boundaries and held on hard enough to leave bruises he could write it off. He could hate himself for giving into weakness but he didn't have to worry about Grisham's pain.

Sammy ground his heel into the spent husk of his cigarette with more force than strictly necessary. He didn't have the time or energy for this shit. He was tired of thinking and worrying about everything and everyone all the time.

Grisham hummed in response. Taking a long moment to put out his own cigarette.

“No. I suppose not.” He said.

Sammy turned back to Grisham, and for a split second there was no smug half smile to mask his expression. It was back by the time Sammy met his eyes. Grisham looked away.

Sammy's guts twisted up in a kind of slow, sick panic.

“That's probably for the best.” Grisham said, suddenly nonchalant again.

He stretched and cracked his neck, exposing the delicate column of flesh to the light and putting a couple still-healing bruises on display for Sammy. “I so enjoy ruining your evenings-- it'd be hard to go back to spending my nights on Friends reruns.”

His smile turned increasingly devilish. “Not that you are much more intellectually stimulating. Still--”Grisham reached into his pocket and beeped his car open. It blinked from where it was parked behind him. “--Everyone needs something brainless to relax with.”

Sammy stuttered for a moment, his brain trying to switch gears and keep up with Grisham's sudden return to form.

“You're an asshole.” He grumbled, lamely.

Grisham's smile was familiar-- predatory-- as he stepped towards Sammy, striding into his space as if he belonged there. Sammy hated that he sort of did now.

“And you're proving my point.” Grisham trailed one finger up the open zipper of Sammy's jacket, letting his hand lazily push through layers of fabric until it was nestled against Sammy's chest.

Sammy hated how Grisham could get a rise out of him so easily-- he was such an asshole, but for some reason every move he made forced Sammy's heart to kick into a higher gear. He felt his body heat up at the simple contact, already primed for what it knew was in store for the evening.

This Sammy could do. This he could deal with. Weirdly, this was comfortable. He knew what to expect from Grisham in this state, could focus in on him, ignore the muffled sounds from inside the bar, the vague indications of humanity drifting in from the street and the alleyway behind them. He could let Grisham rile him up and take him home, fuck the emptiness away for a while.

Sammy clamped a fist around Grisham's wrist, hard enough to grind his bones together a little bit. Grisham didn't flinch. If anything his smile widened.

Neither of them noticed a man stumble into the parking lot from the side door of the bar. It wasn't unusual. It was late. A few other people had come out while they smoked and paid them no mind where they were, hidden in the dark. Apparently not that well hidden, though.

“Well well well, if it isn’t Sammy Stevens!”

A nasal voice cut the tension between them and Sammy stepped back from Grisham in a rush. He really didn't want it to be who it was, but Greg Frickard didn't have a voice he was going to forget any time soon-- even if it was slurred with alcohol.

“For fuck's sake Frickard--”

The heir to the Frickard dynasty took a couple wobbly steps forward and sneered, the light directly above him twisting his plain features up grotesquely.

“This isn't a goddamn gay bar Stevens—” He wavered a little, and then had the audacity to giggle. “Go pick up your... man sluts somewhere else.”

Sammy jerked forward, he'd been ready to pound this asshole for years now— this was as good a chance as any.

“What did you say you slimy bastard--”

A hand on his chest stopped him cold. Sammy looked down at Grisham. His face was curiously blank, but his arm was like iron, holding Sammy back. He turned around incredibly slowly.

“Now now, Greg.” Grisham's voice was sing-song soft in the night air. Greg paled visibly when he recognized the mayor of King Falls.

“O-oh Mr. Mayor-- Grisham!” The frog prince stuttered, the air blown out of him from his earlier posturing. “I didn't-- you-- I didn't see you there...” He tried to smile but it just turned into a grimace.

“Greg, Greg, Greg.” Grisham tutted as he stalked towards the smaller man, slinging an arm around his hunched shoulders and pulling him forward.

Grisham was all lazy grace and languid movement, but Sammy could see his pale fingers, bloodless and white in the lamp light where they were clamped onto Greg's arm.

“I have to say I'm disappointed in you.” Grisham's perfect eyebrows creased into a pained expression as he pulled Greg away from the building into the open lot by his sleek black Porsche.

“Well I er-- I didn't mean it like--”

“To have the proprietor of one of King Falls' most prized small businesses use such intolerant language--”

“Mr. Mayor I think you misunderst--”

Grisham pulled them up short as they reached the car. A hand on the back of Greg's neck shutting him up.

“Well as a public servant, as your friend-- it just breaks my heart.” Grisham's face was a mask of wounded pity.

Sammy trailed after them, trying not to relish the look of abject mortification in Greg's eyes. Grisham played one hell of a politician-- his face was twisted up in a perfect, forgiving smile. He pulled open the door to his car, finally letting go of Greg, who immediately started to grovel.

“W-We are friends, Mr. Mayor-- Mr. Grisham, sir-- I didn't mean to imply that you were—you were...”

“Hmm?” Grisham's smile didn't waver as he waited.

“I mean obviously you're not--not--”

Grisham didn't let Greg finish. His smile stayed perfectly in place but Sammy barely saw him move before he slammed Greg into the side of the car by the throat, bearing down on him and forcing him almost to his knees.

“Holy shit--” Sammy whispered to himself, stopping immediately behind Grisham, paralyzed with shock.

“You know what I love about King Falls?” Grisham held Greg still as if it was no effort at all to pin another human down at an awkward height. Greg whimpered. Sammy saw Grisham's fingers tighten painfully on Greg's throat and his right arm. Greg got the message.

“Nn- What?” His voice was incredibly high-- even for Greg. “Hhh—What do you love—gkk-- about K-King Falls?”

“I love that whatever its flaws, King Falls is a place where everyone is trying to do better— to be better.” Grisham's smile was radiant and genuine. Then he looked down at Greg. “Are you trying to be better Greg?”

Greg tried to ease the discomfort of his legs and thrashed a little against Grisham's grip. Grisham didn't relent, pressing down dangerously on Greg's windpipe.

Sammy felt like he should do something, say something to intervene but... he didn't move.

“Hhh-nn-- Y-yes!” Finally Greg stopped thrashing and managed to gasp out an answer.

“Yes what?” Grisham hadn't raised his voice above a low conversational volume for the entire exchange. He didn't change that now, even with Greg huffing and crying under his fingertips.

“Nnng-- Yes Im-- I'm trying to be better-- Hhhh--!” He jerked as Grisham squeezed his throat again and ground his wrist bones together.

“I mean I will!!” He was shrieking now.

Sammy wondered vaguely if someone would come out and check what all the fuss was about.

“I'll try to be bhhh-- better I--”

“Good.”

Grisham let go of Greg's throat without any warning and the smaller man dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

“Oh and Greg-- you really need to be more careful around cars when you're drinking, it's so easy to hurt yourself.”

Greg looked up at Grisham, dazed and confused, still a little drunk. Grisham held Greg's hand up delicately as if to demonstrate something, and then slammed the car door on it with a sickening crunch.

There was a split second where everything was silent, Sammy was still paralyzed— but he found his eyes on Grisham. To Sammy's surprise, he wasn't smiling. There was no triumphant sneer on his face as he watched Greg scream and writhe in the dirt. His tan skin looked pale in the street light, the flesh under his eyes taught and paper thin. He looked so, so tired.

Sammy had seen flashes of Grisham over the time they'd been together. It's hard to take someone apart completely and not find a hint of who they really are. Sammy had ignored the glimpses he'd gotten-- he didn't want to see Grisham, not really. It complicated things. But he couldn't ignore this. It was displayed in front of him so clearly-- a reflection of himself. He finally understood what Grisham meant when he'd said they were the same, all those months ago.

A hot spike of something shot through Sammy's entire body, finally breaking him out of the spell holding him in place. He grabbed Grisham's arm and pulled him back.

“What the fuck?!” He growled-- turning Grisham towards him. The mask was still gone, there was no smug smile neatly fitted into place this time. Sammy held him by the shoulders, hands trembling. Grisham's dark eyes flashed but he didn't hold Sammy's gaze. There was no pride here.

He closed his eyes and reached up to brush a perfect curl out of his eyes where it had escaped its meticulously tamed brethren. The movement brought him back to himself, a little. Grisham pulled out his phone almost mechanically, turning away from Sammy and back towards Greg, who was crying and whimpering curses from the ground. Sammy saw Grisham’s hand shake as he pressed his thin fingers to the screen.

Greg skittered back as Grisham approached, curled around his broken hand and falling over himself in his haste to back away. Grisham didn't pursue.

“Oh that does look nasty.” Grisham stepped around the open door of the car, genuine concern written in neat wrinkles on his forehead. “Don't worry about getting to the hospital, I've taken care of the car for you.”

Grisham pulled the phone back up as headlights pulled into the alley beside the parking lot. He smiled as the car came into view and he matched the license plate to the one in the app.

“James will make sure you're taken care of, I'm sure.” Grisham slipped the phone back into his pocket and dropped into the front seat of his car. He leaned out a moment later, all easy grace and languid gestures again. The only sign of anything more going on with him the mop of curls now freed and falling in soft cascades over his forehead.

“Coming, Stevens?”

The question wasn't charged. It wasn't a challenge, as all his previous invitations had been. Grisham's face, for once, was simply open. No smug smile-- just a question. His body language was carefully neutral, except for one white knuckled hand holding the steering wheel.

Sammy suddenly understood that his answer here would determine the rest of their relationship. It struck him as suddenly as Grisham had on that stage all those years ago that he could get out of all of this, this whole mess, right now. If he said no, if he turned and walked away, went back into the bar— that would be the end of it. They'd never speak about it again and it would whither and die like it should have after that first time they gave into their respective weaknesses.

Sammy took a few steps back, and then a few more.

He stepped around the front of the car and around to the passenger side, sliding into the seat and closing the door with a soft but definitive thud.

–

The drive back to Grisham's house is quiet, fraught-- but not with their usual barely contained disdain for one another. This drive is different from the others, they can both feel it. It makes Sammy’s stomach churn, and Grisham’s fingers drum idly on the wheel as he takes them up the winding mountain roads.

They don’t talk about Greg, or what just happened. Talking isn’t their strong suit. Honestly not being in the edge of a fistfight isn’t really their strong suit; so when they shuffle through the big double doors of Grisham’s perfectly picturesque Cape Cod styled home they just stand there. Grisham takes his time peeling off the blue peacoat and hanging it in the hall closet.

Sammy just fidgets until he realizes Grisham is holding out his hand towards Sammy. He looks down at it, not comprehending.

Grisham smiles ruefully, not his usual cruel one. “Coming or going?” He tugs lightly on Sammy’s outer jacket.

“Oh—“ Sammy manages to pull off his jacket without too much fuss, Grisham actually pulls it off for him, sliding it into the closet next to his own. They stand there again as the closet door clicks shut.

“Drink?”

“Yes please.”

Sammy nearly cuts Grisham off in his haste to respond, but as they both settle in with crystal tumblers of something disgustingly expensive and also just disgusting, Sammy starts to relax a little. He doesn’t know why he’s so on edge. It’s not like he hasn’t already fucked Grisham on almost every flat surface in this house.

“You know, I think we’ve fucked on almost every flat surface in this house?”

Sammy chokes a little on the disgusting scotch and sputters. Grisham chuckles into his own drink. He does like to make Sammy blush.

“Some of the vertical ones too.” Sammy finally says when he’s recovered a little. He likes when Grisham’s eyebrows arch up in surprise. They’re both always testing, always looking for little chinks in the armor.

They drink in silence for a little while. A sort of replay of their evening in the bar. Sammy watches Grisham and Grisham makes a point of not returning his gaze. Grisham finishes his drink first and stands up to get a refill. Sammy stands with him and catches his arm before he can move away.

Grisham doesn’t usually pull away from Sammy, even during their nastier fights. There’s something manic in the way he’ll lean into a hand at his throat— like a drowning man trying to find a pocket of air. This time is no different. He stands, lets Sammy step towards him and crowd into his space. He’s still carefully neutral, his face turned to the side.

Sammy knows— can feel the tension in him. It would be easy to push, to let this fragility go and snap them back to what it was before, to the familiar antagonism and the safety of hate. But Sammy is drowning too, and he can’t bring himself to do it even though he knows it would be better that way, safer—more practical.

Sammy runs a hand through the short hair at Grisham’s temples. The white shocks there a harsh contrast to the rest of the dark curls and one of the only real tells for Grisham’s age. He’s truly beautiful. His face is sharp and angular and built to be on a postcard or carved out of marble. Sammy’s often held it against him; wondered how much suffering he could have avoided if Grisham wasn’t just so goddamn pretty.

Grisham’s eyes close at the contact and he presses hard into Sammy’s hand, waiting for fingers to twine into his hair and pull. The pain doesn’t come. Sammy just runs his hands through Grisham’s hair and watches the pulse in his neck beat faster.

Sammy loses himself in the rhythm of it for a while, letting his hands knead taught flesh as they drift down over a thin neck and rigid shoulders. He’s behind Grisham now, one arm snaked around the shorter man to hold him close.

“Why... are you here, Stevens.” Grisham’s voice is low with desire and just barely above a whisper. Sammy stops, but doesn’t let go.

“I...” Sammy doesn’t know what to say. He can’t really even reconcile all of his conflicting feelings for himself, much less communicate them to Grisham. He sighs, frustrated. He’s always frustrated when he’s with Grisham, but it isn’t usually with himself.

“You were right.” He’s surprised that’s as easy to say as it is. A week ago he would have died before he’d admit Grisham was right about anything.

“We’re the same.”

Grisham turns towards him, finally meeting his eyes. There is none of the customary cruel mirth there. His eyes are dark, and haunted, his pupils blown wide. His hands are fisted in Sammy’s button down and he’s trembling ever so slightly. Pulled taught like a spring that wasn’t made to stretch this far.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out as a croak, barely audible, and almost before they’re out the spring snaps and he’s shoving their mouths together. It’s harsh, all teeth and bones and hands in a death grip. Sammy doesn’t resist, he responds with harshness of his own— a violent bid to suck the other person into the black hole of self hatred and suffering that threatens to overtake them both.

It was such a relief to couch this suffering somewhere, in someone. Someone who couldn’t learn to hate you for your violence and cruelty because they already did. Someone who had seen all of your darkness and could still bear to meet your eyes, because they had it too.

Sammy pushed Grisham backwards, pulling him roughly up onto the counter and yanking his hips forward to grind against him. Grisham keened against his mouth at the contact, breathless and shuddering.

It was one of Sammy’s particular pleasures to strip Grisham out of his expensive suits. He was rough about it, he popped stitches and ripped buttons off as he pleased. They’d fought about it in the past.

Today he took it slower, both of them adjusting their rhythm after the initial kiss took the edge off. They’d never indulged in a kiss like this before— never really indulged in anything that didn’t get them to the finish line as fast as possible, or wasn’t a vie for power and control.

Sammy slid the pale suspenders off Grisham’s shoulders, pressing a bruising kiss to his neck under his ear as they fell. Grisham brought his hands back up to Sammy’s shoulders and pushed the open button down off them in similar fashion.

By the time Sammy had finished undoing all the buttons of Grisham’s hopelessly wrinkled dress shirt he was a damp mess. His curls were completely free now and he looked wild— eyes black in the shadows as he was backlit by the soft light of his pristine kitchen. He growled impatiently and ground his hips into Sammy, shirt hanging off his shoulders.

Sammy tried not to openly whine as the friction shot white sparks up his spine and made his hands shake.

Instead he pressed his full weight onto Grisham and pinned him to the countertop, biting into the muscles of his neck with the intent to leave a mark. Grisham howled. For someone who talked a big game he had a lot of weak spots, and Sammy was an expert in all of them by now.

Unfortunately that expertise went both ways. Grisham twined his strong fingers into Sammy’s hair, pulling it free of its tie and tugging gently on whole fistfuls of damp dirty-blond locks. This time it was Sammy who growled. He pulled back and tried to regain his breath a little; just the sight of Grisham mussed up and shivering enough to make his cock twitch painfully.

“Fuck me” Grisham said. His voice was even lower and it was pulled from him like a sob. His fingers were still twisted up in Sammy’s hair and his face was so open, so open and desperate that something in Sammy’s chest clenched independently of the growing tension in his groin.

Sammy leaned back until he was standing again and yanked open the clasp on Grisham’s pants, palming him through the fabric. Grisham followed him up and did the same, moaning into Sammy’s mouth and bucking up into his hand. Sammy tried not to shudder as Grisham tore at the button of his jeans, his hands shaking hard enough now to complicate the process.

Sammy pushed Grisham back down before he could take Sammy in hand. He was barely going to last as it was. He shoved one of Grisham’s legs over his shoulder and yanked his pants off his sharp hips. Grisham’s breath caught in his throat as Sammy palmed his ass, pushing hard at his perineum.

“I need—“ Sammy’s voice was rough, catching in his throat. Grisham made a frustrated noise and leaned over and across the counter towards the stove. He pushed a small bottle of olive oil into Sammy’s hand and then leaned up to lick into his mouth.

Sammy returned the kiss, pulling Grisham in as tightly as he could. He let his hand drift down to Grisham’s backside again, relishing the gasps he could withdraw from his partner just by squeezing the right way.

“Sammy.” Grisham’s voice was almost pained. Sammy met his gaze then. It was unusual for Grisham to call him that. He called Sammy “Stevens” or worse, “Samuel”. He wouldn’t usually concede a “Sammy”until Sammy forced him or he was so far gone he didn’t know what was coming out of his mouth.

Something painful twisted in Sammy’s guts again and he shoved Grisham back down, pulling his leg back up over his shoulder. His hands shook as he opened the oil and he leaned down and bit into the soft muscle of Grisham’s shoulder to drown out his screaming brain.

He worked Grisham open as efficiently as he always did. They were good at it now, their rhythms synced to one another and their secrets laid bare.

Grisham arched against him, his breath coming in shuddering gasps now. Sammy wasn’t much better. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples and his cock was so hard it hurt.

“S-Sammy—“ Grisham’s fingers pulled at Sammy’s shirt, skating under it and up over his belly and chest, seeking purchase somewhere as he tried not to let go. “Please.”

Sammy couldn’t look at him now, he knew what he would see and just the tone of Grisham’s voice was enough to send that shooting pain through him again. Sammy brushed his hands aside and pulled Grisham forward by the hips so he was hanging off the counter, knees over Sammy’s shoulders as Sammy pushed into him, burying himself to the hilt in a desperate bid to overwhelm his raw emotions with physical sensation.

It worked. Grisham bit off a cry and his long fingers scrabbled for purchase on the edge of the counter. Sammy didn’t wait for him to adjust, he just started to move, setting a rapid pace and squeezing his eyes shut as Grisham gasped below him.

It wasn’t long before they were both shaking with effort, sweat slick bodies slippery against one another. Grisham was gasping and desperate, a hot blush tingeing him red all the way down his chest. Sammy wasn’t much better, he was dripping wet, heaving with effort as he tried to stave off his imminent orgasm.

Sammy made the mistake of looking down at Grisham— completely disheveled, his dress shirt tangled around his arms, he was like a wet dream. He gasped as Sammy slammed into him again, his eyes snapping open to pin Sammy to the spot.

Sammy didn’t look away this time, frozen, like he was in the parking lot. Immobilized by eyes blown completely black, even in the bright orange kitchen light.

One pale hand reached up, shaking, towards him. Sammy didn’t want Grisham to touch him, didn’t want him to look at Sammy like that but he was still stuck. Trapped by his own fractured heart in the mire of his vulnerabilities—desperate for this touch and hating it.

Grisham’s shaking hand was hot against Sammy’s face, but gentle, gentle for the first time— and then it was both hands, and he was pulling Sammy down and down and kissing him like a dying man trying to breathe just one more breath.

Sammy let go. He let his chest constrict and his guts churn and he kissed Grisham back. He kissed him and he crushed their bodies together— fucking him with all of his endless pain and anger and kissing him with every bit of fear and doubt that made him up. He had known from the moment he’d gotten into that car where tonight would end. He’d known it for a while now. He wasn’t strong enough to resist this connection. Fucked up as it was. Neither of them were.

They clung together for a long time after they came, holding each other through the shuddering aftershocks and great gasping breaths. They were both trembling now, the exertion of the entire night taking its toll.

Eventually Sammy couldn’t hold them up anymore and he collapsed to the side, pressing his feverish forehead into the cool granite. They didn’t move again for an age. Neither of them willing to confront the tectonic shift of the night—knowing they’d both made terrible mistakes.

Eventually though, biology demanded action. Grisham sat up, wincing. Somehow he was still beautiful, but Sammy didn’t want to look at him.

They tucked themselves away and Sammy gathered up his discarded shirt from the floor. He was decidedly uncomfortable now— still damp with sweat. Grisham pulled his own shirt back up over his shoulders, shivering despite the carefully curated temperature control of his luxurious house.

Usually Grisham took him home now. He’d also crashed in one of the guest bedrooms a couple times and one very regrettable night on the couch in the living room. He’d messed up his back for a week— though he suspected that sleeping on the couch hadn’t been the real problem activity.

He fidgeted with the edge of his shirt. He was exhausted. Drained of every resource, physical and mental. He looked side long at Grisham, waiting for a verdict. Grisham, as always was maddeningly collected. He pushed his hair back, lines etched deep in his face, but more relaxed than he’d been the entire evening.

He didn’t meet Sammy’s eyes, ignoring him completely as he stepped forward and headed out of the kitchen. Sammy didn’t move. He watched Grisham get to the end of the room, ostensibly absorbed in untangling the suspenders from his waist.

“I’m not driving you home like this.” He said.

He was still focused on his accessory, but he jerked his head towards the stairs in the foyer.

“Come on.”

Sammy followed after him a moment later, hesitating. He always hated not having a car here. It made him feel like Grisham’s servant or something— at the mercy of his whims. Who was he kidding. He was absolutely at the mercy of Grisham’s whims— car or not.

They headed upstairs and towards the bedrooms. Sammy hadn’t been into Grisham’s room before and he slowed down when it became apparent that’s where they were going. Grisham paused in the doorway and tossed his head irritably, looking back at Sammy with some of his usual fire.

“Coming or going, Sammy?”

Sammy took the opportunity to glare at him, secretly thankful to lean back on their regular style of banter. Grisham disappeared into the room. Sammy couldn’t help but hesitate for another second before joining him. It wasn’t like Grisham’s bedroom was going to be any different from the rest of the house. Clean and dull, put together to be picture perfect at all times. But still. It felt like another boundary. Sammy stepped into the room after Grisham.

It was basically like he’d expected. It was large and luxurious, if not opulent. It matched Grisham, and it was the only room in the house that actually felt like him— blues and grays meticulously arranged to look casual.

Sammy hovered in the doorway until something soft lobbed at his head nearly whacked him in the mouth.

“If you want to change.”

Grisham was standing in front of the big floor to ceiling closet that took up the opposite wall of the room. He’d stripped off his rumpled shirt and was carefully putting his suspenders away in a drawer.

Sammy looked down at the simple T-shirt and boxers in his hands. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Grisham in a T-shirt— outside of that one terrible tourist pamphlet you could get at the Hatchenhaw trailhead. No one had ever looked good in a trashy novelty shirt and for once Grisham was not the exception.

Grisham went back to ignoring him. Stripping off his pants and boxers in one smooth motion, he disappeared into the master bathroom without a backward glance.

“Guess I’m staying here tonight...” Sammy muttered to the empty room.

Sammy put the clothes on the foot of the bed and pulled his sweat soaked shirt over his head, wincing. What he really needed was a shower, but just the idea of spending an extra minute awake made his head throb.

Grisham seemed to have the same idea— he sauntered back into the room just as Sammy was rolling up his discarded jeans. Sammy wasn’t usually an ogler— but once again Grisham made it really hard not to take a second to appreciate the entire expanse of tan skin he had on display. He always knew when Sammy was looking too; he liked it.

Grisham pulled back the comforter on the bed in a quick motion that still managed to be dramatic. He let out an appreciative sound as he slid into his sheets, rolling onto his stomach. How he managed to make every single mundane movement slutty Sammy would never know.

Sammy stood there, awkward. He felt like he’d been doing that a lot lately.

Grisham turned his head and opened one dark eye to give Sammy an exasperated look.

“Coming or going?”

Sammy looked down at Grisham, his face half hidden in the dark blue sheets and his hair spreading out around it in little ringlets.

He had a vision— a split second flash where Sammy saw himself, relaxed, sliding into bed and pushing Grisham over so they were both in the middle of the bed. Wrapping his arms around naked skin to pull him close and bury his nose in those soft curls. Letting their legs tangle together; not minding he’d probably wake up later to an arm fully asleep where Grisham’s weight pressed down on it.

Sammy shook his head to clear it. He felt paralyzed again but he was too tired to do anything more than sink down onto the edge of the bed, not coming, not going— exactly as he had been for months now.

“I can hear you trying to think from here Sammy.” Grisham had turned away, his back to Sammy. “Just go the fuck to sleep.”

Sammy huffed. Even exhausted and drained as he was Grisham’s words sent a little prickle of irritation through him. Once again, anger was a good motivator.

Sammy yanked back the covers and pushed into the bed, placing a large, cold hand on Grisham’s back and shoving him over. Grisham yelped in surprise and arched away, turning towards Sammy with a look of absolute outrage.

Sammy flopped down before he could open his mouth.

“If you thought I was going to lay here, curled up at the foot of your bed, taking what I could get— I’ve got bad news.”

This time he caught Grisham with his own stare, pinning him into place and killing whatever vicious thing he was cooking up dead in his throat. Grisham huffed. He tossed himself back down, not giving another inch.

They both knew they were being ridiculous. It was a king size bed— more than enough room for two people twice Sammy’s size to cohabit comfortably. But as always, it came down to the principal of the thing. No one willing to give up an inch. They didn’t have many inches left to give, after all.

—

It was early hours when Sammy woke Grisham with a nightmare. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Grisham was diligent about keeping up with Riley’s transcripts of the Sammy and Ben Show so he knew it was a thing. What he hadn’t expected was for it to be so... intense.

Sammy was thrashing, and he was trying to speak, or cry out at least, and it shocked Grisham that he couldn’t wake himself up with the cacophony. Grisham grabbed him and tried to hold him still, crushing Sammy to his chest and holding his wrists tight. Sammy fought him, almost as hard as he did conscious— wrenching forward and pulling his knees up, a wail ripping its way out of his throat as he collapsed in on himself.

“Sammy!” Grisham growled in his ear.

Sammy was rigid and shaking in his arms, almost in the fetal position except for Grisham holding him back. Grisham shook him.

“Sammy wake up!”

Grisham had never seen someone have a nightmare like this, it was disconcerting to watch Sammy dissolve. It felt like an invasion of his privacy. Which was ironic, seeing as he lived out his private life on the radio—but still.

Sammy was gasping now, his chest heaving in breathless sobs. The sound was of abject anguish. It made Grisham shiver in the pre-dawn light. That was not a sound that should come out of a human throat. He squeezed down on Sammy harder, bringing one hand up to stroke the side of his face.

“Sammy, shhh.” He pressed his face into Sammy’s neck. “Shh I’ve got you. It’s okay.” There was absolutely nothing okay about this situation. Sammy in his bed was a mistake, and holding him like this, even unconscious, felt dangerous.

“Sammy...” Grisham let his hand drift softly through Sammy’s hair, brushing it out of his face and tucking it behind his ear. “Relax... relax...”

Sammy was still shaking, but his body had gone limp, his face buried in the mattress as he sobbed and choked out half formed words.

“Mm sorry... I’m sorry....” He said, over and over.

Grisham wasn’t the comforting type. He was excellent at faking it and saying the right words, but now, witnessing the chasm of Sammy’s pain without a filter was making his skin crawl. He was not meant to see this. This was not for him to know. He did not want Sammy Stevens to make him feel any more than he already did.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of Sammy’s neck, trying to ease the tightness in his chest and stop the goddamn broken cries still shaking their way out of Sammy’s throat.

“It’s okay sweetheart— it’s okay, you’re fine. You’re safe.” Grisham didn’t know what the hell he was saying, but he wanted to drown out Sammy’s muttering, to cover it up with anything else. He didn’t think Sammy could hear him anyway, it didn’t matter.

“It’s okay...it’s okay...”

Sammy continued to shake in Grisham’s arms. His voice ragged as he sobbed.

“I’m sorry— I’m sorry Sammy.”

Grisham pulled Sammy in tighter, his chest still constricted with whatever god-awful thing was trying to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth. “I’m... I’m sorry you came to this nightmare of a town— I’m sorry you’re caught up in this goddamn mess and I...” Grisham found he couldn’t stop talking now he’d started.

“I’m sorry I am what I am. I’ve never regretted it the way I regret it with you.”

Grisham squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face in the back of Sammy’s neck. “I’d forgotten, you know? I forgot what a fucking monster I am. It was so easy. And I want—“ Grisham’s throat choked him off at the word; because he did. He did want.

“I want you. I want... all of you— fuck!”

Grisham took a shuddering breath. “I want to grind you into my bones and crush you inside me. It’s never enough— you’re never enough when you’re here but I can’t— I can’t—“ Grisham stopped to gasp for breath, shaking along with Sammy now.

“I can’t ever have you the way I want you. You shouldn’t have let me have even this much...”

Grisham loosened his grip, Sammy had stopped sobbing and his breathing was more even now. He was still muttering. Grisham trailed his fingers through Sammy’s long dirty blond hair again, less urgent than before, hands trembling.

“You shouldn’t have gotten in that car with me last night.”

Grisham took a deep breath, remembering how hard his heart was pounding in his head as he watched Sammy step back. He’d wanted to scream in triumph as much as in anguish as he’d moved away. But then Sammy got into the car. He hadn’t left. He had watched Grisham do what he did and he had stayed.

“Sammy.”

Grisham buried his face back into Sammy’s hair, twisting his hand into it like it was his lifeline. Like it was a rope to hang himself with.

“Sammy I—“

“Jack...”

The word was soft, muffled in the twisted sheets but it was unmistakable. Grisham froze where he was. His heart was pounding again and blood was roaring in his ears. It was loud enough to drown out everything— everything except that one, desperate word.

“...Jack...”

Grisham jerked back, awkward, violent— nothing fluid or controlled about it. He collapsed onto the floor, tangled in the comforter but suddenly so desperate to be anywhere else he felt like he was going to suffocate. He managed to get to his feet with a clatter, banging his shoulder into the doorframe as he staggered into the hallway and down the stairs.

He burst out onto the terrace and caught himself on the railing before his legs gave out from underneath him. He was breathing hard, white clouds crystallizing in front of him in the soft grey light. It was freezing, delicate frost patterns swirling over the surfaces of the yard, making it look strange and alien.

Grisham held onto the railing and focused on the cold bite of the metal on his palms. He pressed his forehead to it too, desperate for the pain to distract him from the overwhelming feeling that he was drowning and didn’t know which way to the surface.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough— his head was buzzing and his skin crawled so unpleasantly he had to move, he had to run.

Grisham’s property wasn’t huge, it wasn’t an estate, but it wasn’t tiny either. The woods stretched along behind it and further down they opened up onto a field with a pond at the far end. Grisham ran here when he needed to actually exercise. He made a point of taking a run up Main Street in King Falls every day, waving to all the early risers and stopping to pet dogs as he went— a friendly neighborhood mayor you could count on. Never running enough to break a sweat.

Now he just ran. He was naked save for a pair of boxers and the stones of the forest path cut into his bare feet. He burst out of the forest in a rush, the cold air sending shooting pains through his chest every breath he took. He ran faster. He ran and he ran until suddenly he was at the edge of the pond. He staggered suddenly, his muscles twanging from the sudden sprint in the freezing air.

Grisham shuddered, his head still buzzing. The air still needles in his chest, something like a laugh bubbling out of him as he stumbled forward and threw himself into the dark water of the frozen pond.

The ice fractured around him, winter not bearing down quite hard enough to cover the water with more than a thin shell. Still, the water was freezing. It shocked his system, short circuited his brain until there was only sharp, overwhelming, unbearable cold. He sank.

He sank and he pretended he could just keep sinking, could just let the cold and the dark tear him apart until there was nothing left. But he wasn’t that kind of man.

He burst through the water and the ice and clawed his way back onto the bank, gasping and shuddering, the cold making his limbs sluggish. He collapsed onto the frost tipped grass; raw, ragged laughter ripping up out of the core of him and pouring out into the gray morning.

—

Sammy slept in fitful spurts. It was agitated sleep, moving from vague nightmare to vague nightmare. He was used to what they left him with by now: flashes of red eyes in shadowy faces and voices calling for help in the dark. It was pretty standard.

Still, they left him exhausted and fuzzy in the mornings; and today was especially confounding because he woke up alone, in a bed he didn’t recognize.

Slowly, his memory of the previous night came back. Drinking in the bar with Grisham, Greg, cowering on the ground holding his broken hand— Fuck.

Sammy ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his chin and the new crop of stubble there. He glanced over to Grisham’s side of the bed. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved the man himself was absent. He knew he should be relieved, but the little pang of regret still coiled in the pit of his stomach.

Sammy groaned as he sat up. He was sore— nothing new after an evening with Grisham. At least this time there weren’t any bruises to hide or explain away to Ben.

Sammy sighed. He didn’t want to think about Ben, not here. Not wearing Grisham’s clothes and holed up in Grisham’s bedroom. This was not a part of his life Ben belonged in. Sammy wished he didn’t belong here either.

He dressed quickly, his phone, when he found it downstairs, read 11:24am. Grisham must have been long gone. Sammy didn’t exactly know what Grisham’s working hours were but he knew the man did not take regular weekends. Saturday meant nothing to him.

Sammy let himself out the backdoor and found his way to the path that cut through the woods back to town. It was at least a 45 minute walk but he felt like the crisp spring air could do him some good. He slipped into the forest and headed down along the path. Grisham’s house disappearing behind the thick branches.

Sammy idly wished he could leave the memories of last night behind as easily.

—

Stephen Grisham watched Sammy slip out the back door from the window of his home office. He looked tired. Even from here Grisham could see the weight of it all pressing into Sammy’s body, pushing his head down and his shoulders up around his ears.

Grisham took another long drag of his cigarette, letting the harsh smoke burn into his lungs and try to warm him from the inside out. He was still cold. He had a feeling he was going to be cold for a long time.

Sammy disappeared into the woods, the warm greens of early spring swallowing him up whole.

Stephen Grisham pulled out his phone and deleted a contact, dropping it onto the desk with a clatter when he was done.

He stood and headed back up the stairs, to his room and his perfect suits, and his perfect job and his perfect life. A bit of cigarette ash dropped onto his hand, stinging as it burned. He didn’t brush it away.


End file.
